


I’ve Never Felt So Close

by Achilles_Angst



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: F/M, Lockwood and his hand, Lockwood is lonely ok, Masturbation, Showers, The ship here is uh, alas here I am, author wishes he was ashamed enough not to post this but, because of course, post thb, teen boy pining levels x100, there is no plot here ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28441131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achilles_Angst/pseuds/Achilles_Angst
Summary: After THB, Lockwood needs to let off some steam.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	I’ve Never Felt So Close

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, thank you so so much to my wonderful Beta/cheerleader Stormwalkers, who essentially shamed me into finishing this by telling the Discord Server about my 3 billion WIPs. Well played. This is somewhat dedicated to her and Ellajane2255, whose headcanons on this subject fuelled the fic.   
> Comments feed my soul!

Lockwood isn’t particularly intending to do anything in the shower. He’s tired from fencing practice, and feeling a messy combination of annoyed and sad because he and George ran into Kipps today at the shop and instead of flinging insults or at least glowering he’d said, sounding bemused and faintly accusing,

“What the fuck did you do to Carlyle?” And then left before Lockwood could crossly point out that he hadn’t done a thing, that Lucy had gotten some idea into her stupid stubborn head and walked out  _ quite of her own accord, thank you very much.  _

The implication that Quill bloody Kipps has recently spoken to Lucy when he hasn’t so much as seen her in passing in the furnaces is enough to fling him into a bad mood, mostly so he can avoid the chasm of sadness that opens in his chest whenever he thinks about her.  _ What the fuck did you do,  _ indeed. Frankly, Lockwood is still asking himself the same hopeless question, if more politely phrased. Hardly the most amorous start to an evening. 

But. Coming certainly won’t solve his problems, but it might improve his mood, and sometimes it makes him sleep better afterwards. The hot water on his sore shoulders is blissful, and he feels his mood lighten as he works shampoo through his curls. It’s hard to be angry with life when you’re surrounded by warm steam scented with notes of pine and sea salt. By the time he’s put on conditioner, he’s feeling positively cheerful. It’s been a while since he’s been remotely in the mood to do this, and the thought of release and the resulting good mood is extremely tempting.

He snakes a lazy hand down his stomach, wincing as he hits a fresh bruise. His hands are softer than usual, pink from the warm water. His cock is a warm, heavy weight, and after considering doing this for the last ten minutes or so the first brush of his fingertips has him interested. It’s easy to huff out a sigh, wrap his hand around himself, spread the other against the cold, slippery tile. This was a  _ great  _ idea. He’s all easy, tired heat, warmth beginning to pool slowly, slowly in the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes and with his water-softened hands and the hot contact of the water all over him it’s almost like it’s someone else doing this to him. 

He leans further forward, like it’ll bring him closer to this imaginary figure. He focuses on the idea, trying to keep his strokes even, draw it out. Thinks about someone else with rapier callouses flicking their wrist at the end just so, the way he likes it. Someone short, maybe, he quite likes being able to stand over people. With dark eyes too, he just thinks they’re pretty. And broad shoulders, all quiet strength. And Hell, curves too, he’s in the mood. And the fantasy is taking shape quite nicely when his eyes snap back open as he realises he’s just described Lucy near-perfectly. 

Fuck. Fuck! His instant response is a guilty shudder of  _ she-works-for-you-position-of-power-god  _ until he belatedly remembers that she’s gone, which makes it better but also worse because what kind of normal, approachable human being fantasises about their ex best friend who seems to hate them now? 

There’s also the now unavoidable fact that he’s painfully hard, and suddenly stopping is making his toes curl. He really, really wants to finish, but now desire is all tangled up with guilt and the pit of lucylucylucylucy that he’s ignored so well until now. He glowers at the tiles, determined not to think about anybody, and resumes his previous activity. The rolling heat of his hand is good even as his thoughts are chaotic, and he tries to match the movement of his hips to his palm. He tries not to think at all, lets his eyes close again, tries to lose himself in the motions. 

It works, to an extent. But he finds himself strung out on the edge, just shy of finishing and unable to get there. He groans in frustration, aching and wound up and  _ still not there. _

__ This was a terrible idea. His hand was perfectly serviceable until his brain got in the way, and now he’s stuck in an agonising rut between mind-numbing arousal and his guilty conscience. He tries stopping again, hand retreating, but the thought of being denied coming on top of what has already frankly been a grim day is miserable.

He drifts his hand down again, feather light like it’ll negate some of the guilt of this, and the barely-there brush of sensation nearly makes him smack his head into the tiled wall. Like this, it’s painfully easy to pretend his hand is not his own, that the fleeting touches are being made by someone else. 

He shuts his eyes again, focuses on the coiling ache of teasing himself like this. He’s so close, and maybe later he can pin the blame on being addled with lust or already having her on his mind, but when he gives in and pictures her again it’s like Lucy is there with him. The sheeting water at his back could almost be another body curled tight against him and his hands could be hers, if her arms were around his waist and the strokes were slightly more hesitant. He slows down, matching his motions to the fantasy taking shape. Slow at first, but she’d gain confidence quickly, she’s always been a fast learner. She’d speed up, maybe start adding a slight twist at the end of each stroke, try increasing the pressure very slightly and- 

He comes with a brief yelp of surprise, hand clenching against the tiles. He shudders through it, tries not to inhale water as he gasps for air, brain a traitorous shout of  _ Lucy, please, Lucy. _

He stands for a moment, shivering at the rush of water against his prickling skin, mouth open in some kind of attempt to get his breathing back under control. He soaps himself down in a daze, and stumbles out of the bathtub into a towel.

The stunned pleasure lasts for about five minutes, at which point embarrassment slams into him like a wave of psychic cold. He brushes his teeth in a haze of guilt and slides into his pyjamas, hoping to flee to his room where he can crawl into a hole in the floor in peace, but when he eases the door open George is loitering outside with his dressing gown and a book which looks distinctly un-educational. 

Lockwood feels his face go hot, undoubtedly meaning that he’s going horribly, guiltily pink. George raises an eyebrow as he passes, mercifully choosing not to comment on the fact that he practically sprints down the corridor to get away. 

Once his door is safely shut behind him Lockwood collapses into his bed, tugging the 

duvet over his head the way he used to when he was little and was trying to hide from imagined ghosts, like it can shield him from his imagination again. He wants to hide from himself, change the last fifteen minutes so he doesn’t have to think about the fact that he came quite dramatically at the thought of Lucy touching him. 

To his horror, it occurs to him that he’ll have to look George and Holly in the eye tomorrow, all the while knowing that he’s a terrible ex best friend. He can’t quite convince himself that they won’t be able to see exactly what he’s done written all over him, and will judge him for it. 

In spite of his intentions to lie worrying, his duvet cave is warm and comfortable, and he finds his eyes closing despite himself. His sleep is deep and thankfully dreamless, and the most restful night he’s had in weeks. 

Holly says brightly the next morning that whatever he’d done to get eight hours of sleep is certainly worth repeating. George smirks into his toasted teacake. Lockwood kicks him under the table and wishes the ground would swallow him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from the song “Touch” by Shura.


End file.
